SCENESame as Act I. It is afternoon of a fine day three days later. Motors are heard coming up the drive in front of the house. There is the muffled sound of voices. The MAIDis seen going along the hall to the front door. Then the family enter from the rear. First come JAYSONand ESTHERwith MRS. DAVIDSONthen LILY, DICKand SHEFFIELDthen JOHNand his wife. All are dressed in mourning. The only one who betrays any signs of sincere grief is MRS. DAVIDSON.The others all have a strained look, irritated, worried, or merely gloomy. They seem to be thinking The worst is yet to come.

JAYSON[Leading MRS. D., who is weeping softly, to the chair at left of tablefretfully.] Please do sit down, Aunt. [She does so mechanically.] And do stop crying. [He sits down in front of table. ESTHERgoes to couch where she is joined by EMILY. MARKgoes over and stands in back of them. DICKand JOHNsit at rear of table. LILYcomes down front and walks about nervously. She seems in a particularly fretful, upset mood.]

LILY[Trying to conceal her feelings under aforced flippancy.] What ridiculous things funerals are, anyway! That stupid ministerwhining away through his nose! Why does the Lord show such a partiality for men with adenoids, I wonder.

LILY[Resentfully.] If I had, Id have lost it when I saw all of you pulling such long faces in the church where you knew you were under observation. Pah! Such hypocrisy! And then, to cap it all, Emily has to force out a few crocodile tears at the grave!

JAYSON[Distractedly.] And now this perfectly mad idea of going away to-day to join that infernal expeditionleaving that child on our handsthe child he has never even looked at! Why, its too monstrously flagrant! Hes deliberately flaunting this scandal in everyones face!

LILY[Who has wandered to window on right.] You mean you think he believesWell, I dont. And you had better be careful not to let him guess what you think. [Pointing outside.] Theres my proof. There he is walking about with Bigelow. Can you imagine Curt doing thatif he thought for a moment

SHEFFIELDWell, for one, Im becoming quite resigned to Bigelows presence. In the first place, he seems to be the only one who can bring Curt to reason. Then again, I feel that it is to Bigelows own interest to convince Curt that he mustnt provoke an open scandal by running away without acknowledging this child.

LILY[Distractedly.] I know! Shut up! Havent you told it a million times already? [MRS. DAVIDSONgets up and walks to the door, rear. She has been crying softly during this scene, oblivious to the talk around her.]

JAYSONYes, lets do thatcome on, all of you. [They all retire grumblingly but precipitately to the study, closing the door behind them. The front door is heard opening and a moment later CURTand BIGELOWenter the room. CURTSface is set in an expression of stony grief. BIGELOWis flushed, excited, indignant.]

BIGELOW[As CURTsinks down on the couchpleading indignantly.] Curt, damn it, wake up! Are you made of stone? Has everything Ive said gone in one ear and out the other? I know its hell for me to torment you at this particular time but its your own incredibly unreasonable actions that force me to. I know how terribly you must feel butdamn it, man, postpone this going away! Face this situation like a man! Be reconciled to your child, stay with him at least until you can make suitable arrangements

BIGELOWHow can you keep repeating thatwith Martha hardly cold in her grave! I ask you again, what would she think, how would she feelIf you would only consent to see this baby, I know youd realize how damnably mad and cruel you are. Wont youjust for a second?

BIGELOW[Restraining his anger with difficultycoldly.] Thats your final answer, eh? Well, Im through. Ive done all I could. If you want to play the bruteto forget all that was most dear in the world to Marthato go your own damn selfish waywell, theres nothing more to be said. You will be punished for it, believe me! [He takes a step toward the door.] And II want you to understand that all friendship ceases between us from this day. You are not the Curt I thought I knewand I have nothing but a feeling of repulsiongood-by. [He starts for the door.]

BIGELOW[Stops, his features working with grief and looks back at his friendthen suddenly goes back to himpenitently.] Curt! Forgive me! I ought to know better. This isnt you. Youll come to yourself when youve had time to think it over. The memory of Marthashell tell you what you must do. [He wrings CURTShand.] Good-by, old scout!

CURTIS[Dully.] Good-by. [BIGELOWhurries out, rear. CURTsits in a dumb apathy for a whilethen groans heart-brokenly.] Martha! Martha! [He springs to his feet distractedly. The door of the study is slowly opened and SHEFFIELDpeers out cautiouslythen comes into the room, followed by the others. They all take seats as before. CURTignores them.]

JAYSON[Clearing his throat.] Curt [Before he starts what he intends to say, there is the sound of voices from the hall. ESTHERand LILYhelp in MRS. DAVIDSONto her former chair. The old ladys face is again transformed with joy. ESTHERjoins EMILYon the couch. LILYsits in chairfront right. There is a long, uncomfortable pause during which CURTpaces up and down.]

SHEFFIELD[With his best judicial air.] If youll all allow me to be the spokesman, I think perhaps that I [They all nod and signify their acquiescence.] Well, then, will you listen to me, Curt? [This last somewhat impatiently as CURTcontinues to pace, eyes on the floor.]

SHEFFIELDFirst of all, Curt, I hope it is needless for me to express how very deeply we all feel for you in your sorrow. But we sincerely trust that you are aware of our heartfelt sympathy. [They all nod. A bitter, cynical smile comes over LILYSface.]

EMILY[Pettishly.] Esther! For goodness sake! [CURThesitates, stares at his sister frowningly as if judging her sinceritythen bends down over her and kisses the top of her bowed head impulsivelyseems about to break down himselfgrits his teeth and forces it backglances around at the others defiantly and resumes his pacing. ESTHERdries her eyes, forcing a trembling smile. The cry has done her good.]

SHEFFIELD[Clearing his throat.] I may truthfully say we all feelas Esther doeseven if we do not give vent [With an air of sincere sympathy.] I know how terrible a day this must be for you, Curt. We all do. And we feel guilty in breaking in upon the sanctity of your sorrow in any way. But, if you will pardon my saying so, your own course of actionthe suddenness of your planshave made it imperative that we come to an understanding about certain thingsabout one thing in particular, I might say. [He pauses. CURTgoes on pacing back and forth as if he hadnt heard.]

SHEFFIELDYou have plenty of time to listen to what II should rather say wehave to ask you, Curt. I promise to be brief. But first let me again impress upon you that I am talking in a spirit of the deepest friendliness and sympathy with youas a fellow-member of the same family, I may sayand with the highest ideals and the honor of that family always in view. [CURTmakes no comment. SHEFFIELDunconsciously begins to adopt the alert keenness of the cross-examiner.] First, let me ask you, is it your intention to take that five oclock train to-day?

SHEFFIELD[Remonstratingly but suspiciously.] You can hardly hold the child responsible for the terrible outcome. Women die every day from the same cause. [Keenly.] Why do you attribute guilt to the child in this case, Curt?

SHEFFIELD[Soothingly.] In your great grief. Yes, yes, of course. We all appreciateand we hate to [Persuasively.] Yes, it would be much wiser to postpone these practical considerations until you are in a calmer mood. And if you will only give us the chancewhy not put off this precipitate departurefor a month, sayand in the meantime

CURTIS[Harshly.] I am going when I said I was. I must get away from this horrible holeas far away as I can. I must get back to my work for only in it will I find Martha again. But youyou cant understand that. What is the good of all this talking which leads nowhere?

SHEFFIELD[Coldly.] Youre mistaken. It leads to this: Do you understand that your running away from this childon the very day of its mothers funeral!will have a very queer appearance in the eyes of the world?

SHEFFIELDPerhaps Curt misunderstood me. [Meaningly.] Be reconciled to it in the eyes of the public, Curt. Thats what I meant. Your own private feelings in the matterare no ones business but your own, of course.

EMILY[Breaking in.] Its all very well for you to ignore what people in town thinkyoull be in China or heaven knows where. The scandal wont touch youbut weve got to live here and have our position to consider.

SHEFFIELD[Insinuatingly.] And dont you suppose the doctors and nursesand the servantshave noticed this? It is not the usual procedure, you must acknowledge, and they wouldnt be human if they didnt think your actionor lack of actionpeculiar and comment on it outside.

SHEFFIELDIt is hardly a case of their judgingyou. [Breaking off as he catches CURTStortured eyes fixed on him wildly.] This is a small town, Curt, and you know as well as I do, gossip is not the least of its faults. It doesnt take long for such things to get started. [Persuasively.] Now I ask you frankly, is it wise to provoke deliberately what may easily be set at rest by a littleIll be franka little pretense on your part?

CURTIS[In an acute state of muddled confusion.] ButIyouhow are you concerned? Pretense? You mean you want me to stay and pretendin order that you wont be disturbed by any silly tales they tell about me? [With a wild laugh.] Good God, this is too much! Why does a man have to be maddened by fools at such a time! [Raging.] Leave me alone! Youre like a swarm of poisonous flies.

CURTISYou dare to say that! [Then controlling himself a bitwith scathing scorn.] What do know of lovewomen like you! You call your little rabbit-hutch emotions loveyour bread-and-butter passionsand you have the effrontery to judge

SHEFFIELD[Peremptorily.] You are making a fool of yourself, Curtand you are damned insulting in the bargain. I think I may say that weve all about reached the end of our patience. What Emily said is for your own best interest, if you had the sense to see it. And I put it to you once and for all: Are you or are you not willing to act like a man of honor to protect your own good name, the family name, the name of this child, and your wifes memory? Let me tell you, your wifes good name is more endangered by your stubbornness than anything else.

CURTIS[Trembling with rage.] II begin to thinkyouall of youare aiming at something against Martha in this. Yesin back of your wordsyour actionsI begin to feel [Raging.] Go away! Get out of this houseall of you! Oh, I know your meanness! Ive seen how youve tried to hurt her ever since we camebecause you resented in your small minds her evident superiority

CURTISHer breadth of mind and greatness of soul that you couldnt understand. Ive guessed all this, and if I havent interfered its only because I knew she was too far above you to notice your sickening malice

EMILY[Insane with rageshrilly.] But we knowand the whole town knowsand you neednt pretend youve been blind. Youve given the whole thing away yourselfthe silly way youve actedtelling everyone how you hated that babyletting everyone see

EMILY[Pouring forth all her venom regardless.] But you might as well leave off your idiotic pretending. It doesnt fool usor anyone elseyour sending for Bigelow that nightyour hobnobbing with him ever sinceyour pretending hes as much your friend as ever. Theyre all afraid of youbut Im not! I tell you to your faceits all acting youre doingjust cheap acting to try and pull the wool over our eyes until youve run away like a cowardand left us to face the disgrace for you with this child on our hands!

EMILY[Becoming exhausted by her outburstmore faintly.] Well, someone had to show him his place. He thinks hes so superior to us just becausetelling us how much better she was than But I wont stand for that. Ive always had a clean nameand always willand my children, too, thank God! [She sinks down on the couch exhausted, panting but still glaring defiantly at CURT.]

CURTIS[An awareness of her meaning gradually forcing itself on his mind.] Bigelow! Big? Pretending hes as much my friend [With a sudden gasp of sickened understanding.] Oh! [He sways as if he were about to fall, shrinking away from EMILY,all horror.] Oh, youyouyoufilth!

CURTIS[His hands over his eyes, acting like a person stricken with a sudden attack of nausea, weakly.] Sothatswhat has been in your minds. Oh, this is bestialdisgusting! And there is nothing to be done. I feel defenseless. One would have to be as low as you are She would have been defenseless, too. It is better she is dead. [He stares about himwildly.] And you thinkyou all think

CURTISAh, I know you [Looking around at the others with loathing and hatred.] But look at them [With a burst of fierce determination.] Wait! Ill give you the only answer [He dashes for the door in rear, shakes off his father and DICK,who try to stop him, and then is heard bounding up the stairs in hall. DICKruns after him, JAYSONas far as the doorway. ESTHERgives a stifled scream. There is a tense pause. Then DICKreappears.]

MRS. DAVIDSON[Getting angrier and angrier as her puzzlement has grown greaterin a stern tone.] I understand less and less of this. Where has Curtis gone? Why did he act so sick? What is the matter with all of you?

MRS. DAVIDSONNo, youll not hush me up! [Accusingly.] You all look guilty. Have you been saying anything against Curtis baby? That was what Curtis seemed to think. A fine time youve picked outwith his wife not cold in her grave!

MRS. DAVIDSONI never liked that woman. I never understood her. But nownow I love her and beg her forgiveness. She died like a true woman in the performance of her duty. She died gloriouslyand I will always respect her memory. [Suddenly flying into a passion.] I feel that you are all hostile to her babypoor, little, defenseless creature! Yes, youd hate the idea of Curtis having a sonyou and your girls! Well, Ill make you bitterly regret the day you [She plumps herself down in her chair again, staring stubbornly and angrily before her.]

CURTIS[Reenters. There is a look of strange exultation on his face. He looks from one to the other of them. He stammers.] Wellmy answer to youyour rotten worldI kissed himhe is mine! He looked at meit was as if Martha looked at methrough his eyes.

CURTIS[Staring at her, then from one to another of the rest with a withering scorn.] Ha! Now you think you have conquered, do you? No, Im not going to stay! Do you think your vile slander could influence me to give up my work? And neither shall you influence the life of my son. I leave him here. I must. But not to your tender mercies. No, no! Thank God, there still remains one Jayson with unmuddled integrity to whom I can appeal. [He goes to MRS. DAVIDSON.] I will leave him in your care, Auntwhile I am gone.

MRS. DAVIDSON[Pleased but morally bound to grumble at him.] But I cannot approve of your running away like this. It isnt natural. [Then with selfish haste, fearing her words may change his mind and she will lose the baby.] But you always were a queer personand a man must do faithfully the work ordained for him.

CURTIS[Gladly.] Yes, I must go! What would I be for himor anyoneif I stayed? Thank God, you understand. But I will come back. [The light of an ideal beginning to shine in his eyes.] When he is old enough, I will teach him to know and love a big, free life. Martha used to say that he would take her part in time. My goal shall be his goal, too. Martha shall live again for me in him. And you, Aunt, swear to keep him with youout there in the countrynever to let him know this obscene little world. [He indicates his relatives.]

CURTIS[Turning to her.] Yes. Good-by, Lily. [He kisses her.] You loved her, didnt you? You are not like Take my advice and get away before you become [He has been staring into her face. Suddenly he pushes her brusquely away from himcoldly.] But I see in your face its too late.

CURTIS[Facing them all defiantly.] Yes, I am going without a wordbecause I cannot find the fitting one. Be thankful I cant. It would shrivel up your souls like flame. [He again turns and strides to the door.]

CURTIS[Wavers with his back towards themthen turns and forces the words out.] Ask forgiveness of her. Sheyesshe was so fineI feel sheso you are forgiven. Good-by. [He goes. The motor is heard driving off. There is a tense pause.]

[There is a strained pause during which they are all silent, their eyes avoiding each other, fixed in dull, stupid stares. Finally, DICKfidgets uncomfortably, heaves a noisy sigh, and blurts out with an attempt at comforting reassurance:]